


Under Armor

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Community: trope_bingo, M/M, Prostitution, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 09:52:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wooo hooo trope bingo chucked me 'prostitute/stripper AU' and I couldn't decide. So...a prostitute with a client who has a stripping kink. Same warning as for Titanium Bare: mech divested of armor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Armor

There were some advantages to having so many properties that sometimes even you forgot where all of them were, Shockwave thought.  And that advantage was that chances were, others forgot where they all were too. Which led to the rarest privilege of all among the Senators: privacy.

And it was pure self-indulgence, reaching out along the old Lightwave lines, hunting through the posted profiles.  It would be a minor scandal, one he could certainly live down with his reputation for impulse, but that was hardly any real impediment.  And there was something clean, in a way, about hiring a buymech for this—a transaction unpolluted by ulterior motive, a tidy exchange. And a willing participant. 

Who had just arrived, optics scudding from side to side beneath Shockwave’s security monitor.

“Security code?”  Shockwave spoke through the hardlink he had to the house—a basic security measure, at his level.

The optics revolved up to the camera: orange. Lowlight optics, hard but somehow not bitter, as he rattled off the alphanumeric string.

Shockwave nodded, and the door reacted, sliding open in front of the buymech. Shockwave stood up, one hand plucking the lead from his cranial jack, moving from the small vestibule into the foyer, his usual business smile already on his lip plates.

“Prompt,” he said, smoothly.

“You’re paying,” the buymech said, flatly, optics studying Shockwave, ignoring entirely the room around him.  Shockwave had seen images, on the buymech’s lightwave profile, but this Drift hadn’t seen him before now. It was all right: Shockwave enjoyed being looked at. “Part of what you’re paying for is probably not to have your time wasted.”

“True.”  He let himself study the mech back, openly, his blue optics scanning over the buymech, the speedster’s kibble.  Fast, light little groundframe.  He could already feel his sensornet twitch. “You’re clear on what you’re here for.”

The orange optics caught his. “Yes.”  Knowing, and defying shame.

“All right.” He gestured to the back room. This was simply a pied-a-terre of his, not one of his more luxurious apartments, just perfect for these little trysts. 

Drift took his clue, moving toward the back room. His EM field betrayed the only hint of perturbation, sluicing against Shockwave’s as he passed.

Shockwave followed, studying the grounder’s back kibble. It was always fascinating to see a mech’s back, to him. Partially the vulnerability, partially a thrill of seeing something the mech himself couldn’t see, like a blind spot.  He resisted—barely—the urge to splay one hand between those deep shoulders.  Touching was for later when it was far more intimate.

He settled himself onto the berth, tucking one leg under him, as Drift posted himself in front of it, one hand squeezing his wrist, almost nervous. “Ready?”

Shockwave nodded, feeling desire already begin to shimmer over his frame. 

Drift bent, his mouth tight and unreadable as his hands found the armor locks on his ankle.  Shockwave could hear the metallic clicks and then the stiff give of the seal gaskets parting—probably for the first time.  Drift looked up, optics wary, as he pried the armor open the white and dingy-grey plating falling open to reveal the almost slender assemblage of struts and pistons and hoses underneath.

Shockwave sucked in a vent of air, optics nearly white with anticipation, glued to the spectacle of the naked metal, the molytanium alloy of the long struts, the slight greaselines on the pistons. “The other,” he said, his voice a croak, as the buymech’s hands shifted over to his other leg, snapping the armor off.  And then, without much of a flourish, stepping back, leaving the boxy toeplates behind. 

He looked almost ludicrous, this way, knee down stripped to his protoframe.  Shockwave couldn’t look away, watching the fine shifts of the gimbals in the ankles, the slight microadjustments for balance, only his peripheral vision catching as Drift’s hands moved up, stripping down the clamshells over his thighs in two brisk moves. 

Drift paused as the metal clattered to the floor. “More?”

Shockwave nodded, his throat feeling tight with lust, unable to let words pass by, his gaze flicking up to Drift’s hands, floating over his hips. Oh. Yes.  Shockwave’s spike surged beneath its cover, pushing a slick rush of lubricant, as those hands worked at the hip armor, enameled plating falling away, revealing the bare equipment covers, the joins of thigh and hip. 

“All of it,” Shockwave managed, the next time Drift paused. A brisk nod, and the hands moved, quickly, to strip the rest of the armor off—arms, chassis, shoulders, everything he could remove, stripping down to the brushed blue-grey of his protoframe. Shockwave caught the tremor of the hands, even from here, a quiver of excitement? Vulnerability? He didn’t know. All he did know was that the mech before him, stripped down to his barest essence, fanned his lust: the fascination of the moving parts, the keen whiff of how very fragile a mech was, under all his plating, the power that he could pay for this—each their own aphrodisiac, sharp and potent.

“Come,” he said, offering a palm, as if beckoning. As if Drift had a choice.

He did, Shockwave told  himself.  Drift could refuse, and simply forfeit the money.  It was legal, if not pure. 

Drift crossed over, hands slack by his sides, even their bare cables and lines exposed. 

Shockwave smiled up at the standing mech, reaching his hands, slowly, to the hips, caressing the warm, bare metal, fingertips grazing over the tops of joints, the fuel lines. He leaned closer, burying his face in the exposed chassis, nuzzling, optics closed, against the spark chamber, feeling the electric thrum of its pulsations under the zirconium plating. He sighed against it, mouth pressing into the warm metal. 

Drift shivered around him, all too aware of the closeness, closer than mechs normally got, all too sensitized to the stir of air around normally covered components.  One of Shockwave’s hands slipped down, finding the join of the thighs, cupping at the valve cover. He could feel a leak of wetness from it, even as the buymech quivered under the touch.  Ah. Better. Even better. 

Shockwave looked up, catching the lidded optics with his own, as that hand dropped to his own lap, releasing his spike.  The buymech knew the meaning of the gesture, moving forward with a practiced ease as Shockwave pushed himself onto the berth, lying on his back, his spike jutting into the air.  Drift moved to straddle him, pausing for a click, his narrow, naked thighs on Shockwave’s, the Senator’s spike armored and bright against a sea of grey-silver of his own bare body. 

It was a buymech’s trick, the stall, a way to build anticipation. And it worked: a silver bead of transfluid glowing like a pearl on the spike’s tip before the buymech pushed up on his knees, moving forward and then, carefully, half-maddeningly slowly, downward, his valve enveloping the spike component by component—the wedged head, pushing inside, then the first ring, then the second level of plating, moving, it seemed, piece by piece, until the mech was seated across Shockwave’s hips, his valve calipers snugging against the spike’s girth. 

They both paused, wanting, needing the break, wanting to take in the contrast—heat and size and pressure, protoframe thigh against Shockwave’s elegant armor.  Shockwave’s hands curved over the hipframe again, thumbs sliding over the frame’s front, optics finding in the orderly jumble of parts, the inverted cup of the valve. There. He was in there. He could see the silver flashes of the moving calipers and when he rocked, gently, he could see the mesh lining swell and shift from the outside.

The mech above him seemed so…small, so breakable, so incredibly frail, that his spike surged again, almost without volition, inside the valve, setting off another cascade of caliper-flashes, another shift under the valve mesh. 

Above him, Drift shuddered, naked hands clutching at his thighs, optics lidded.

More, Shockwave thought, rocking his hips underneath the other. He wanted to feel more, he wanted that awareness of Drift’s smallness and fragility to be brought home to them both. 

His hands danced over the exposed endoframe, cupping the ribstruts for a moment before he rolled to one side.  The buymech sensed the movement, tucking his shoulder in and letting himself be lifted, moved, and lain down on the berth, the spike still clutched by his valve.

This was better, Shockwave thought, sliding one knee under a bare thigh, leveraging himself against the protoframe.  He’d been taller than the buymech to begin with: but now, curling over the protoframe he seemed positively massive, powerful and bulky and dangerous.

And the lowlight sheen on the orange optics beneath him told him Drift felt it, too. Acutely. 

He wanted to draw this out, to make it last, but his own lust was fighting that, a feral thing, snarling for release.  The sullenness had left the buymech’s face, replaced by an almost dreamy want, which set fire to Shockwave’s slim resistance, and he found himself thrusting in, harder and sharper, hovering close enough to press his EM field through Drift’s, to wash the smaller mech in the gusts of his cooling fans, his one hand gently brushing the helm—all that brought any identity or individuality to the protoframe now that the scowl and hardness had left the face—while his other couldn’t help but tease them both with little brushing caresses over the struts, tweaking the hoses and cables.

Drift thrashed beneath him, as though overcome by his own vulnerability, wanton and lost, his small fingerplates clinging to Shockwave’s broad chestplating with something like desperation, a complement to the fierce clutch of the valve on his intruding, thrusting spike.

One could pay for compliance; one could coerce. But nothing could buy this: Drift’s need, almost outpacing Shockwave’s own, his arousal in slick washes of lubricant down the senator’s spike. He wanted this, was aroused by it, at least as much as Shockwave, moaning and squirming under him until neither of them could hold back anymore: the overload swept them both away, a tsunami of electrons pummeling over both of them, each of them, blinding white in intensity, harder than stone, sweeping away any difference between them: size, class, education, anything but this common, united release.

It was sweet and strong, like a pure note ringing through the air, singing through both of them, and for  a long moment, Shockwave hung, straining after even the last fading echoes of it, as it throbbed away between them. 

His systems reset, joints releasing with little hydraulic hisses, and he lowered himself, carefully, onto the berth, still lodged in the buymech’s valve. Drift lay, his own frame glistening with condensation, naked and limp, wrung out with release. The buymech sighed. LIke this, down to his protoframe, even the triwave of his buymark was gone. He could have been anyone. He was everyone. 

Shockwave answered the almost contented sigh with one of his own.

"Want me to go?" Drift managed, his voice a throttled croak, his optics languorous and slow, wallowing in the last vestiges of pleasure, even while his mind had grabbed the thread of reality.

Shockwave didn't want to grab that thread, himself. Not yet. Not here. He draped one arm over the chassis, his elbow joint feeling the gentle hum off the spark chamber, as he pressed himself into the side of the buymech's helm.  "I paid for the whole night," he said, the words inadequate shears to cut those threads, but they were all he could offer. His spike slipped from the valve, a leak of hot silver between them like a symbol neither of them could read. 


End file.
